The Meeting
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: NCIS: Season 12: Episode 14: Cadence. Two years after the events of Cadence, five people whose lives are closely connected to it are reunited again by coincidence in Lexington, Virginia.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

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 **The idea for this story was originally inspired by the Robert Cormier novel,** _ **The Rag and Bone Shop**_ **. Anyone who's read that book will see that shows here, most of all in Chapter 3, where some text is actually borrowed straight from Cormier's novel. The name for the replacement for Honor Corps, The Vigils, that Nicholas Golan creates is lifted straight out of another Cormier novel,** _ **The Chocolate War**_ **\- probably Cormier's best-known work. There is also a passage during Travis' interaction with the Superintendent that is lifted almost verbatim from an early chapter of Pat Conroy's novel** _ **The Lords of Discipline**_ **.**

 **A meeting of some kind occurs in each of the three chapters, and I specifically meant to shift the perspectives around. I started out intending to write this as a quick ten-page work, but wound up making it about four times that length. I have some sympathy for everyone I feature in this story, and that sympathy, that sense of understanding, is a big part of what made this story so easy to write once I got it going. I wrote this story before it came out that Michael Weatherly was leaving the show. It was also before Tony learned he had a daughter, and thus the character's motivation to leave NCIS in order to give most of his attention to raising her. This story is thus set after Tony would have been out of federal law enforcement for a year and a half. So far I've kept the story the same, mostly for simplicity's sake.**

* * *

Travis Phelps had possessed precious little enthusiasm for military schools of any kind since his days at Remington Military Academy in Tiverton, Rhode Island. He knew enough to realize that not all military schools were identical to RMA, and that most were probably very different. Unfortunately, his luck had landed him at a military academy that, however prestigious it was, however highly-ranked its academics and athletics programs were, also had a glaring flaw that a lot of people on campus knew about but nobody wanted to acknowledge.

Honor Corps. You learned not to even speak the words aloud pretty fast after arriving at RMA, as a staff member or as a cadet. It wasn't a good idea to talk about things that didn't exist. But for a bunch of guys who didn't exist, Honor Corps had done a fine job of bullying anyone they saw as unfit to wear the uniform of Remington- or the school ring. The boys of Honor Corps had a strictly-defined, fiercely-defended sense of honor, and if you drew their attention- there were a variety of ways to do it, some good, most bad- they would size you up and decide what they planned to do with you in short order.

For Travis, an overweight, hopelessly unmilitary boy with glasses, there had been little chance of evading their notice. Honor Corps didn't care that by the 1980's, most boys at RMA were not there by choice. They were fanatics about Remington and its way of life, and anyone who they saw as particularly disloyal or sloppy was to be "corrected". So they had gone after Travis almost the day he'd shown up. First insults and petty mockeries, then PT sessions conducted when only more friendly staff members were around to see. By the time he left, Travis could not have been happier to go. He'd managed to graduate, but just barely. Almost every night Honor Corps either paid him a visit, or intercepted him on the way to his room and took him to some dark spot on campus where they could mess with him without interference.

And this cruel, merciless treatment had been administered by some of the best and brightest in the entire Corps of Cadets at RMA. Sharp, highly driven and disciplined, and all good friends with one another, they were model cadets- the kind of whom Remington was proudest. Sometimes you even saw their faces in commercials, on promotional materials. And why not? They were Remington's best.

 **XX**

But for Travis, graduation did not bring all the things he'd hoped and thought it would.

Leaving the Corps of Cadets hadn't meant leaving the school, as it turned out. The endless bullying from Honor Corps had distracted Travis, or "Piggy" as he'd often been called, from his classes constantly. His grades, never the best, had suffered as frequent sleep deprivation and depression took their toll. By the point that the time for doing college applications rolled around, Travis didn't fill out a single one. He'd had no interest in going any farther. He just wanted out.

Travis had needed something to do, though, especially once his parents made it clear that he would need to move out before long if he wasn't going to college. With nowhere else to go, Travis had returned to Remington Military Academy. He'd gotten in touch with their Maintenance Department, starting as a part-time custodian. Ironically, at the same place where Travis had made such a lousy cadet and been punished for it constantly, he found a distinct knack for the janitor's kind of work. Travis picked up the tools of his trade quickly, and found himself moved into full-time work within two years. Content just to be left alone and collect a steady paycheck, Travis stayed on at RMA for nearly thirty years. He still hated the school, but he also feared it. And most of all, he continued to fear them- Honor Corps.

 **XX**

Things had started to change, though, when Private John Wallis, USMC, had been found murdered. The Naval Criminal Investigative Service had soon found evidence linking the killing to RMA, and Travis knew immediately that Honor Corps knew, and that they were very anxious to see the detectives go back where they had come from. Powerful as they were, there were people even Honor Corps didn't want to cross, and a federal law enforcement agency topped the list.

Travis knew far more than anyone at RMA thought he did. Even a lot of the staff thought he was a bit dumb, a good janitor but not much use at anything else. But behind his glasses and that pudgy frame was a remarkably capable mind, and the fact that Travis Phelps was so insignificant to so many at RMA was exactly what made him so knowledgeable.

There were certain kinds of people you just tended to ignore- people who blended into the background even when they were right in front of you. Cashiers, bag-boys at the supermarket- and very often, janitors. Travis blended into the background all by himself, but combined with his job, he could be damn near invisible sometimes. Raking leaves, cleaning windows, changing bags on a trashcan, his ears had little to do and took in much from their surroundings.

His eyes worked well, too, and had made sure Travis spotted Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., recognizing him immediately despite not having seen him in 27 years. Travis had gone out of his way to find Anthony's cell phone number. He'd reached out to practically the only friend he'd ever had at RMA- Honor Corps had made sure of that- and had made a point of telling Tony and his partner as much as he could about Wallis, about Christine Sanders, and about Honor Corps and how much control they held over RMA. It had scared Travis to death, doing all that, because the boys in Honor Corps were extremely smart. They had friends, eyes and ears everywhere.

For each actual member, there were two informants. Whether or not they knew who they were passing information to, these boys were keeping Honor Corps up to speed on anything they found interesting. And old Travis "Piggy" Phelps, Class of 1987, ratting them out to a pair of NCIS agents would have interested them a great deal. Travis had risked so much in telling Tony what he knew- if Honor Corps had found out, getting fired would have been just the start of his problems.

But it had felt good to finally tell somebody- to break the taboo and say the name of that secret society for the first time in close to thirty years. Travis said as much to Tony when they met for dinner not long after the investigation ended.

 **XX**

The death of John Wallis, and Travis' uncharacteristic decision to take the risk of telling Anthony what he knew, seemed to boot him loose from the routine he'd fallen into for close to three decades. Travis seemed to see things differently, behave differently- even if in outwardly minor ways. But he did not live in fear of RMA anymore, or even of Honor Corps- not as much as he once had, anyway, and any progress was worth something.

It didn't even shake Travis back into his shell when he learned, through keeping his eyes and ears open, that Honor Corps had been disbanded. Some kind of power shift had taken place. The boys whispered about it, and you could see something was up in the way two boys- Ryan St. Esprit and Nicholas Golan, two top-ranking cadet officers in the Class of 2015, suddenly were swaggering around campus like they owned the place. And Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Lucas Craig, supposedly the big shot both officially and unofficially, suddenly didn't seem quite such a big shot anymore. In fact, he turned into something of a little shot, and Travis clearly came to understand that Golan and St. Esprit, already high up in rank, were now the real power in the Corps.

Travis also heard that there was no such thing as Honor Corps anymore. Somehow connected to the murder of John Wallis at the hands of another alumni and the death of Christine Sanders, Honor Corps had disbanded itself. The new name circulated amongst the boys soon enough, though, and by graduation set-up Travis knew what it was. Whispered by some with reverence, by all with a certain measure of fear, it was less than a rumor, more than a myth. Just a couple of words.

The Vigils.

After almost thirty years of working at Remington Military Academy, Travis finally decided he'd seen enough. If nothing else, he was beginning to fear that his luck would run out- that Honor Corps would discover the secret listener in their midst. That would cause him a lot of problems. And with Lieutenant Colonel Tanner resigning as Provost, one of the RMA faculty that Travis most respected was leaving. One way or another, it was time to go.

There was one upside, where Travis' fears about being discovered by Honor Corps were concerned. So far as he'd heard and seen, Nicholas Golan, the blond, handsome, athletic boy who looked so much like his father Mark, was not a big believer in physical violence. He liked psychological terror much better than physical, respected the power of the mind much more than that of the fist. And it made sense, too- after all, what else had the kind of power over the body that the mind did?

And best of all, Travis had a sense that the long gray line was not exactly happy with Nicholas and his friends disbanding a 74-year-old brotherhood and replacing it with a new one, however similar. Nicholas' pale face kept the strain well-hidden, but it was there if you knew where to look. He had a distracted, nervous air about him sometimes- you could tell something was on his mind besides college acceptance letters and graduation.

But Nicholas Golan's personal problems had no meaning to Travis. They just represented assurance that if Travis decided to bolt now, he could do it without a whole lot of fear that anybody would sense anything unusual. Things were changing at RMA, and staff normally turned in their retirement or resignation notices at the end of the year. So a month before graduation, Travis informed the President's office of his intention to retire after 27 years at Remington Military Academy.

Irony of ironies, he moved to Lexington, Virginia, and got a job as Head Custodian at the elite military college, the Virginia Military Institute. The job had come recommended by none other than Tony DiNozzo, who during another dinner meeting- this one in Boston- had slyly mentioned having "possibly" put in a good word for Travis at VMI.

Despite having no enthusiasm for the military lifestyle or for military schools, Travis had spent almost thirty years at one as a janitor. It was all he really knew. And besides, his initial research online about Lexington, Virginia showed very favorable results. It wasn't a big town at all; the only things really going on were VMI and a very old, very prestigious civilian college, Washington & Lee.

It was likely to be a significant change from New England and from the large port city that Tiverton was ultimately a part of. But change was welcome; Travis looked forward to doing something new and getting out of Rhode Island for the first time in decades. He looked forward to living in a quiet mountain town, where nobody knew or cared about zealot cadets and their secret codes.

Mostly, though, he was just glad to be leaving RMA.

 **XX**

 **Monday, November 20, 2017**

"Phelps- good, I was hoping for a chance to talk to you."

Travis stiffened at the sound of that voice; it was deep, authoritative, roughened by years of hard use on the drill field, during morning PT runs, and in battle. It was four-star General Angelo Diaz, the 15th Superintendent of VMI and the first Hispanic Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was a living legend on the Post, as all Superintendents at the Institute seemed to be. Going all the way back to his days as an RMA cadet, where the boys with the highest rank had often been the ones Travis had most greatly feared, Travis instinctively feared authority figures. His first thought was an immediate assumption that he had done something wrong.

Standing up from the trash can he was cleaning out, Travis stood up on the front walk leading up to the George C. Marshall Museum, and promptly saluted the Superintendent. The salute was crisp and military- a leftover from both cadet days and years of working at Remington. The General returned the salute and regarded Travis for a moment.

"Mr. Phelps, I was just viewing the results of the work detail you led in Lejeune Hall on Friday, and that whole building looks outstanding, inside and out. I've been hearing good things about you from some other sources, too."

Whatever Travis had been steeling himself for, praise like this hadn't been it. He managed to keep from gawking in surprise, but just barely. Travis knew he should just smile, nod, shut up and let General Diaz move on, but he couldn't help himself.

"You've been hearing about me, sir?" he asked, polite but also curious.

The General nodded, and for the first time gestured to the lean, sharp-looking young man standing off to his left. He was dressed in the white duty uniform, black winter jacket worn over the white shirt, gray cap set firmly on his short-cut blond hair. Two crisp blue eyes regarded Travis with polite interest. He wore the number of his graduating class- 19- on a circular patch of the left shoulder of his jacket, and the gray, sewn-on insignia of the Regimental Sergeant Major.

"Oh, yes. The boys on Regimental Staff were particularly impressed with how well you did running the setup for Ring Figure. Cadet Sergeant Major Golan here was just telling me how pleased his classmates were with the Maintenance Department. Isn't that right, Mister Golan?"

The blond boy nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. The custodial staff had everything shined up just right. Nothing got missed. My father's starting to think he might've made a mistake by going to Colorado Springs, sir."

General Diaz smiled. "Well, for an Air Force Academy man he's doing all right. Major General now, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir. Got promoted this past August. Commands the 8th Air Force out of Barksdale AFB."

"So, you see, Phelps, you're making quite an impression," General Diaz said, turning back to the veteran janitor. "I know your contract runs out at the end of next semester, but keep this up and you'll have no problem staying on. You're a credit to the Institute, and if all custodians in this country had the work ethic you do, we'd all be better for it."

"That was _very_ well put, sir, if you don't mind my saying so," Golan said.

General Diaz did _not_ mind Golan saying so; he was radiant and positively enchanted by Golan's oily compliment. Travis was abruptly seized by a passionate desire that if he ever was to attend a convention of flag officers, he would want nothing more than to run the Chapstick stand there, offering some small relief to the obsequious legions of asskissers who spent their days pandering to the egos of generals.

Travis had never been the kind of cadet or soldier who interested one of those imperious, intimidating eagles of war. He had always watched men like Diaz from a distance, as he had the President of RMA, another retired general. But even Travis had observed that somehow, for some reason, every general he had ever seen in his life required the presence and the gentle, insincere strokes of these self-serving acolytes of flattery, and Travis had never been able to understand it.

"Thank you, Mister Golan. Mister Phelps, please consider renewing your contract with us at the end of next semester. I've always got a spot on my team for men as dedicated as you."

"Thank you, sir," Travis managed to say. "I appreciate that. I'm glad to hear it."

"Carry on, Mr. Phelps," General Diaz said with a smile, and they exchanged salutes again as the General and the second-classman moved off, continuing to talk.

Travis' hands shook as he returned to his work, and it was five minutes before his heart-rate began to slow at all. The highest-ranking second-classman at the Institute hadn't recognized Travis, but Travis had recognized him.

The things that were said about him by other boys at Remington were almost a verbatim description of what he was said to be like today at the Institute. Sophisticated, intelligent, articulate and always a gentleman. A wild partier, and popular among the younger cadets for his willingness to play leader, mentor and protector. A master of drill and ceremony, Golan practiced both rifle and sword manual every day in front of his mirror. He was cordially disliked by his female classmates, and was known for being very friendly with the members of the "Old Corps", the all-male classes running from 1839 to 1997.

Known for being stern on the job but ultimately very caring when he wanted to be, Golan had nevertheless been brilliant in his inventiveness and extraordinary in his cruelty as he executed the mission of making life "very sad" for Christine Sanders.

She had collapsed under the strain, deliberately overdosing on pills and committing suicide. She had still been alive, just barely, when Travis had arrived, keyring jingling and toolbox rattling, to unlock her jammed door. But by the time the EMTs showed up and began the race to the hospital, the fight to save Sanders was already over.

It appeared that Honor Corps, as they so often did, had succeeded.

And their leader, the usurper of the mantle of Commandant and the creator of successor group The Vigils, had followed Travis here with a none-too-surprising choice of college. Upon seeing his nametag, hearing the word spoken, Travis had panicked inside- sure he'd be recognized. But if Nicholas Golan recognized the longtime janitor at his old military high school, he'd chosen not to say anything. There'd been no shift in his expression, just an outwardly polite, inwardly bored, "Go away and let me keep sucking up to the General" look that said he wasn't the least bit interested in Travis at all.

That was a relief.

There were some people who you wanted to regard you as no one special. Nicholas Golan was one of them. Travis knew this instinctively, would have known it even if he hadn't known a thing about the cadet. Past his sharp military bearing, beneath that smooth, handsome exterior, there was something off-center about him. Like a picture blurred slightly at the edges. He'd ignore you if he didn't think you important, but if he felt he had reason to- even one good reason- he'd destroy you. Things… happened around Nicholas Golan. It was whispered that he was an immensely dangerous person to cross, wielding exceptional amounts of power at a remarkably early age. And with his father's influence, connections, and military prestige continuing to grow, he was destined to go far in life.

And if he knew that Travis knew what he did, had seen and heard what he did, that he'd helped Tony with his investigation, Nicholas would not hesitate to 'arrange' some career disaster for Travis. And he wasn't someone you toyed with face-to-face; however much he disdained physical violence as a means of coercion, Nicholas Golan's lifetime of study in Marine Martial Arts and the Israeli's Krav Maga testified to his ability to do more than hold his own if attacked.

He had been a dangerous young man at Remington, and he remained one now. So much about him was the same it was almost eerie.

That same flawless attention to detail visible all over his uniform and person, that same outstanding military bearing and that same insatiable lust for rank and prestige. And from the looks of things, he was already on good terms with those in authority on Post, well on his way to another top posting on the Corps of Cadets' regimental staff for next year.

The incredible contrast of the life of this young man, and the life of the young woman he had helped destroy because it had been ordered, made Travis sick. It bothered him for the rest of his work day on Post, but as always, the stoic professional, Travis hid his feelings and did his job. But that didn't stop him from thinking about it.

Nicholas Golan was a Cadet Sergeant Major, a newly-christened member of the VMI brotherhood, a rising star in his class, son of an Air Force two-star general.

And Christine Sanders was just dead.

 **XX**

Travis Phelps was going to be 48 years old in just another couple of days. He could hardly believe he'd lived nearly 50 years at all, let alone almost all of them as a supporting member of the military school system of education. It had been completely against what he'd really wanted, but Travis knew no other world at this point. He was a 'lifer' in his own way, a man who had spent his entire working career as a military school janitor. It wasn't such a bad life, in its own way.

He got paid well, had steady hours and good benefits. He was treated respectfully by his superiors, subordinates and colleagues, and best of all there was no Honor Corps to fear at the Institute. Secret societies were specifically banned by the Blue Book, the text containing all regulations and specifications on things forbidden at the Virginia Military Institute.

And unlike most, Travis knew what to look for. What to listen for. And the whispered rumors of some higher power, some band of cadets who controlled more than the Regimental Commander did, weren't happening here. They hadn't been for either of the three years Travis had worked at VMI.

The cadets had plenty going on, of course. The barracks rumor mill was if anything more active at VMI than it was at RMA- and why not? There were 1,700 cadets here, versus 450 at Remington. That was a lot of additional scuttlebutt to go around.

You had a different crowd of cadets at the Institute, overall. All of the young men and women at this college were volunteers. Some might have been talked into it, or done it because this was the one college that would be paid for in full by their parents. Some were pretty cynical- putting up with a lot of hubris and military nonsense (in their eyes) for the luster of the VMI name.

But you still had the zealots, the military nuts, the fanatics about all things VMI. Some of them were probably the right type to be Honor Corps, if it existed here. Travis was very happy it didn't.

Seeing how seriously the Honor Code was taken here, how harshly VMI punished violators- expulsion was the only response if one was found guilty by the Honor Court- Travis had a distinct feeling that VMI would not tolerate the rule-bending and secret dealing that was so ordinary within Honor Corps.

They also had women here, too. Enough years had passed since the admission of women in 1997 that VMI had pretty much moved on, and the old guard had accepted it even if they didn't like it. At RMA, there were no female cadets anymore. Somebody had succeeded in changing that back.

It was important to remember that VMI was a state school, though, while RMA was private and thus not obligated to be coed. But VMI could go private if it wanted to. The Institute had a tremendous amount of support from graduates, close relatives of graduates, and many other friends and members of the VMI family. There was no shortage of funds at the Institute.

They had chosen to remain a state college after losing the courts battle in 1997, though, and hadn't looked back since.

As Travis drove home in his 2015 Chevrolet Colorado, the first new truck he'd ever bought and probably the last truck he would ever own, he actually managed to smile a little as he thought about it. After getting their way so completely at RMA, after being used to having no female cadets around for four years or more, any members of Honor Corps- or The Vigils- who had come to VMI must have been having a lot of fun dealing with female classmates.

Even _superiors_ , sometimes, when Honor Corps/Vigil graduates came to VMI and started at the bottom again as Rats.

Honor Corps had always been fiercely traditional, and felt that girls, and women, were not supposed to be cadets at any of the historic military academies or colleges, because all-male was the way it had always been.

Not getting their way on this one had to be just killing them.

"Too bad," Travis chuckled, starting as he realized he'd spoken aloud. He shrugged and drove on.

 **XX**

At home, resting comfortably after a shower and change of clothes, Travis was stretched out on a sofa in the modest home he'd bought just a mile and a half from the Post just before moving to Lexington in 2015. He was proud of owning his own house. This might well be where he'd stay for a long time yet- out here in the mountains, far away from anybody who'd ever bothered him (though not their sons), Travis was beginning to think about, and look forward to, a nice, quiet retirement.

He was still thinking about that as he watched the evening news when his cell phone went off.

Reaching over to the end table to pick it up from underneath a warmly-shining lamp, Travis swiped in his password on the touch screen and held it to his ear. "This is Phelps."

"And how _is_ Head Janitor Travis Phelps?" came a familiar wise-ass voice, light-hearted and just a little sarcastic.

"Hey, Tony," Travis answered, smiling a little in spite of himself. "And it's Head Custodian, actually."

"My sincerest apologies."

"Yeah," Travis said, chuckling and shaking his head as he stared at the evening news, watching it but not really watching it. "Has NCIS got a case in Lexington? Or is your boss bringing the whole office by the Post for a recruiting visit?"

"See, I'm not the _only_ one who can be a wiseass, Travis."

"Learned it from you."

Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., laughed on the other end of the phone. "Well, now, I guess you did. How is it out there at VMI, Travis? They treating you all right?"

"Better than RMA ever did," Travis answered, immediately bypassing nearly 30 years of working there to refer to 1 year of going there. It might not have been entirely rational, and Travis didn't hate the people he'd worked for… but that's the way it was. He just never would like RMA or forgive it for the excesses he'd been subjected to there as a cadet.

"I don't doubt it," Tony answered, sobering up just as quickly. "I'm glad you could finally get out of there, Travis."

"I'm glad you helped."

"Well. Since I'm such a great guy and all, how about showing an off-duty agent around Lexington, Virginia? Word reached me that somebody's birthday is coming up next week."

Surprised Tony remembered, but a little touched, Travis thought for a moment. He had little family left, and not a whole lot of friends either. Really, the extent of his plans for his 48th birthday had been to take a paid week off, maybe go a couple miles away to West Virginia and stay at one of the state parks there.

But maybe he'd wait another day before actually leaving town. Why not? It was something to do, and Travis didn't want to discourage Tony, never the biggest "people person" himself, from reaching out to someone.

So he said, nice and casual, "Sure. How about dinner at The Boar's Head? It's one of the best places in town, and you don't have to wear a tie."

"Sounds great. Especially the tie part."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

 **Friday, December 1, 2017**

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 **A/N: Those unfamiliar with military school or college life, especially that of the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia, may not know some of the terms here. At VMI, new cadets are referred to as "Rats" until they have, together with their classmates (Brother Rats) broken out of the Ratline and earned their place at the Institute. Being a rat involves, in essence, a very hard freshman year at college. The Ratline does not last all of freshman year, but it takes up a lot of it. It involves a substantial loss of privileges and a lot of extra hardships compared to ordinary colleges, but VMI graduates are also much more closely linked than typical classmates at ordinary colleges. You get out what you put in.**

 **VMI is almost never called "VMI" by anyone on Post (on campus), usually known simply as "The Institute". Fourth Classmen are freshmen once they have broken out of the Ratline. Third Classmen are sophomores. Second Classmen are juniors, and First Classmen are seniors. The VMI ring, one of the largest college rings there is, is presented at a formal ceremony and dance called "Ring Figure". Although cadets become full members of the Corps on the day they break out, it is not until the presentation of their class rings that they are accepted fully into the brotherhood.**

* * *

Nicholas Golan was in a fantastic mood today. Never in his life had things been going this well. He was top-ranking cadet in his class this year, and achieving Regimental Sergeant Major put him in position to be an ideal choice for Regimental Commander next year. If he truly liked being the senior cadet noncom, though, he could request to just keep his current position, but Nicholas knew he'd want to keep going onward and upward. That's how he'd always been at Remington, and that's how he was here.

Working hard all his Rat year, learning who the power players in the Corps were, who he needed to make friends with among his Brother Rats and who he needed to avoid, Nicholas had made an excellent impression on his cadre and the VMI staff he came into contact with. He was made a Cadet Corporal for his third classman year at VMI, what was normally sophomore year at more ordinary colleges. Once again, he'd worked tirelessly alongside the friends he'd come here with and the friends he'd made, and wouldn't you know it, Regimental Sergeant Major just happened to fall into his hands come promotion time last year.

Now all that remained was finishing the job. Completing his third year at VMI on the strongest academic and military terms possible. If Nicholas could just do that, he'd be set. Even if he didn't get First Captain- and he would fight for it right up to the moment they posted the rank lists- Nicholas was going to get some top-level officer job at Regiment, where he'd been his whole rank-holding career. It would mean being in the highest echelons of power in the Corps, in the best position to keep getting connected, getting to know people, laying the groundwork for what was coming next- commissioning into the Air Force and beginning a long career.

Tonight, though, all that was being set aside. All work and no play made Jack a dull boy, and while nobody seemed to know if _Jack_ ever took that advice, Nicholas Golan sure as hell had. Between his classmates from RMA and his BRs here at the Institute, Nicholas knew his share of guys at the University of Richmond, a highly prestigious and extremely costly private university in the Commonwealth of Virginia's capital. Guys and girls from Richmond high society went there, and those rich kids lived it up with a particularly good party scene. You had to be "in" with the in crowd to get invited to the best parties available on that campus, though.

How very fortunate, then, that Nicholas Golan definitely was in with the in crowd.

The plan was simple. Take two days' leave, starting tonight. Go to Richmond, pay a visit to U of R, and alongside his best friend and two-time classmate Ryan M.H. St. Esprit, get drunk as shit and just party his ass off. Four other guys in their class were coming to the party, heading out tonight in another car. Nicholas and Ryan had decided to leave a little later, spend some time here in Lexington first. They were very close friends, much as their fathers had been at their age (and still were, as older men) and often liked to share time with just the two of them.

Coming out of his room on second stoop, Nicholas zipped his gray wool jacket up the rest of the way. The cold here was not as bad as it got up in Rhode Island, but damn if it wasn't close, and this year it seemed to be trying particularly hard. New England weather, specially imported to Virginia.

"Hey, Christianson," he called out, spotting one of his fellow party-goers coming his way, "You seen the Ghost?"

"St. Esprit went into town, man. He's picking up his Caddy. Isn't that so nice of our French BR to let him keep it at his host family's house?"

"Nice of de Rocaille's host family."

"Sure," Christianson said, laughing.

A great crashing of metal interrupted them, and both 21-year-olds' heads turned in time to see a hapless Rat, no doubt trying for a speedy and quiet passage down the nearby stairwell, landing sprawled on the floor. Beside him was a steel trash can, empty and very much knocked over.

"Rat!" the two second-classmen shouted as once, moving in to intercept him.

The eighteen-year-old boy quickly jumped up and snapped to the exaggerated, especially strict position of attention known as "bracing", and answered, "Sir, yes, sir!"

"Do you think the trashcan appreciates you running into him with your clumsy rat feet?" Nicholas asked.

"Sir, no, sir!"

"You think he likes you knocking him over and making that friggin' racket?" Christianson demanded.

"Sir, no, sir!"

The two upperclassmen stared at the Rat, shifting glances towards each other. As staff NCO's, they had less authority to punish Rats, ironically, than their specially-trained counterparts on Cadre, the trainers and drill instructors assigned to the companies. But they could still make this Rat push for a while if they wanted to.

Were this any other day of the week, they probably would have. As it happened, though, both young men were just hours away from a weekend of earthly pleasures in Richmond. They had a lot of fun waiting for them, and the longer they messed with this dumb Rat the less time they had to pack.

But they couldn't just let him off, either.

"Rat," Nicholas said solemnly, "I don't even care that you carelessly interrupted myself and Christianson here. At least you didn't run into us and knock us over."

"But the same can't be said of Mr. Trashcan, here. Look at him, Rat. There he is, knocked flat on his ass when he never did anything to you in his life," Christianson added. "It makes me sick to my stomach to see you Rats attacking helpless trashcans like that. I may not be able to sleep tonight."

"Sir, no excuse-"

"Shut up, Rat!" Nicholas yelled. "Now, you may be a careless, bonehead Rat, but you will still act like a gentlemen in my presence. Apologize to the trash can for fucking up his day without provocation."

The Rat came out of his brace, stepping down to pick up the trash can and set it upright. He climbed inside it, bracing again. "Sir," he said in a loud, clearly-pronounced voice, "Mr. Trash Can, sir. Rat Michaelson, J.R., apologizes for knocking you over with neither provocation nor permission, for causing you undue agitation, and for interrupting you in carrying out your duties to the Virginia Military Institute without proper authority!"

It was a flowery, handsome apology, and took both upperclassmen quite by surprise. Hiding their astonishment as the Rat climbed back out of the trash can, they made a show of looking at each other, then at Michaelson.

"That was terrible, Rat," Christianson said.

"Completely insincere," Nicholas declared.

"Lucky for you, we're feeling gracious."

"As forgiving as a gentleman can be."

"So get off this stoop in five seconds, exactly _five seconds_ , and we'll let you go."

"Start _moving_ , Rat," Nicholas said warningly, taking a step forward. "You need some _help_?"

Michaelson didn't need telling twice. With his motivation, five seconds was nothing. He was gone in three.

The two second classmen watched him go, then looked at each other and laughed.

"Rats are so dumb," Christianson said, grinning. "Lucky they got us around."

"Yeah, _some_ body's gotta teach 'em proper etiquette for trash cans," Nicholas agreed, and that set them off laughing again.

 **XX**

"You sure you don't want to come straight out to Richmond with us?" Christianson asked, turning back to the conversation they'd been having.

"Nah, man," Nicholas answered. "Me and St. Esprit already made plans for dinner at The Boar's Head at 1800. We won't be that far behind you, trust me. We'll get into Richmond with plenty of time for the good stuff."

Christianson smiled. "Yeah, man. You know my older brother, he says he's been lining this one up for _weeks_. They got _everything_. He said that there's definitely some Richmond girls looking to just hook up with somebody good, have some fun for the weekend, and they know some studmuffins from VMI are coming."

Nicholas grinned. "I like what I'm hearing."

"Man, when did _you_ switch preferences?"

"Shut up, First Sergeant," Nicholas said kindly, giving Christianson a good smack on the back of his closely-shaved head.

"Aw, I think somebody's tryin' to tap me."

"Want me to try again?"

"Shit, no. You keep trying, you'll break your fragile wrist, and that'll get in the way of your big master plan for this weekend, won't it?"

 **XX**

Ryan St. Esprit was easily one of the wealthiest guys on Post. His father had was doing well in the Army and even better on the stock market, and had always regarded it as a given that his son should have the best of everything. While Nicholas 'made do' with a one-year-old Caprice, Ryan drove one of the enormous new Elmiraj coupes Cadillac had started making in 2014. With a hood longer than most compacts and a supercharged V8, the sleek red car was a long way from subtle. But Ryan seemed to like owning such a showy, ostentatious car.

"Nobody else has one of these," he'd say. "Everyone knows it's me when I'm driving around."

Not everyone in the Corps approved of such a lack of modesty, and that included some of the other wealthy cadets. Nicholas stayed neutral on that one; how Ryan chose to display his wealth was his business. And besides, there was nothing better for making a big entrance to the U of R party scene- or for getting from Lexington to Richmond as fast as 'slight' bends in the law would allow.

Ryan grunted as he threw Nicholas' suitcase into the Elmiraj's trunk, parked as close to Barracks as they'd been able to get away with. "Damn. What'd you put in this thing? We're gone for a couple _days_ , not a couple _weeks_."

"It ain't that heavy, man. It's just that you got those thin little girl arms."

The brown-haired Sergeant Major of 1st Battalion smiled sweetly. "Fuck you."

"Thanks," Nicholas grinned, then lifted Ryan's bag and placed it on top of his own. He reached up and brought the trunk lid down, and they both went around to the long, heavy doors, one on each side, and got in.

 **XX**

"You'll _never_ guess who I saw in front of the George C. Marshall Museum this morning," Nicholas said, taking off his service cap and brushing at his stubby blond hair.

"Craig?" Ryan asked, and he started laughing at the idea. "Shithead?"

Nicholas laughed too. He and Ryan had never been happy about narrowly getting passed over for the top post in Honor Corps, Commandant, to that football jock Lucas Craig, back when they'd all been 11th graders at Remington Military Academy. They'd hoped and prayed that a good excuse would come along to oust him, and had gone around to some of the other Honor Corps members from the start of the 2014-2015 year, making alliances- just in case.

By the time that Victor Caroni discovered that the whole business with Christine Sanders had started because Craig was pissed that she wouldn't go out with him, enough of the guys were getting tired of working long shifts harassing this girl that Nicholas and Ryan hadn't needed to convince them much. By the time the meeting happened, the guys had had enough. They'd had _enough_. Sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll in a big way. Their _own_ grades and personal lives were slipping, and now they'd learned it had all been because Lucas Craig had problems in his romantic life.

And, as shocking as it might have been to Lucas Craig, that was _not_ their fucking problem.

Getting Craig fired as Honor Corps Commandant had been remarkably easy, and _fun_. Watching him squirm in despair as he went on as Cadet Lieutenant Colonel and Battalion Commander, top dog publicly, but a mere figurehead now that he'd lost control of Honor Corps, was even better.

Nicholas really wasn't sure where Craig had gone after Remington. Probably some fucking civilian college that had extended him an offer of a full-ride football scholarship. All Nicholas really knew for sure that it wasn't VMI. He would've known if Craig was here. No question.

"Nah," he said, kind of wishing it had been Craig- Craig as a fucking janitor while his old rivals were training to go out and take over the goddamn world. "Nah, man. Somebody else from Remington, though."

They were headed past the football stadium, and in just moments would be off Post. "So who is it, then?" Ryan asked.

"Mr. Phelps."

"Huh?" Ryan turned and looked at his best friend as he halted at a stop sign. "What, pudgy dude with the glasses and all?"

"That's him."

"The hell's he doing here?"

Nicholas shrugged. "Janitor… ing."

Beginning the drive through town towards Main Street, Ryan glanced at his friend with a bemused look on his face. "I don't think 'janitor-ing' is a verb, brah."

"It is now. I made it one."

"Right," Ryan laughed, shaking his head. " _Jeez_ , that's creepy." He shivered theatrically. "Man. I know he didn't follow us here, but _Christ_."

"Don't you cuss in this here Caddy, Catholic boy."

"Fuck you, you Protestant fuckbucket."

"You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

"Only after I been to Confession," Ryan shot back casually. "Okay, okay. So, you recognized Mr. Phelps. It was really him."

"Sure it was. I'd know that dude anywhere. Most pussywhipped guy on campus at RMA."

"Whipped, sure. That's him all right. You think he recognized you?"

Ryan was using just a fraction of the supercharged V8's power as he drove; the car's engine never went above a low rumble, the relatively low in-town speed limits of Lexington never even challenging the Cadillac's motor.

Listening to the smooth, barely-tapped power of the Cadillac V8, Nicholas thought about it for a moment. "No," he said after a moment. He hesitated, then added, "Well- maybe. If he did, he just showed it for a second. He might've."

"Do you think he knew _you_ recognized him?"

"I doubt it," Nicholas answered after another pause for thought. "Nah, I just gave him this nice, polite look. I bet he thought I was such a goddamn gentleman, complimenting him in front of the General and all."

Ryan gazed straight ahead as he braked the Cadillac to a stop at a red light. "Do you think he _knows_ anything?"

Nicholas shrugged. "I doubt it. How much could some fuckin' janitor know about anything we did at Remington?"

The brown-haired 21-year-old didn't quite seem satisfied. "I dunno, man. Maybe we should get him fired."

 **XX**

Such a drastic act, spoken of so casually. It spoke volumes of Honor Corps- and The Vigils, now that the alumni had finally stopped flapping their wings and fussing like a bunch of frigging chickens- and the kind of power they wielded, especially on campus at RMA. But this was not Tiverton, Rhode Island. They weren't at Remington anymore. And while the extensive alumni network of Honor Corps graduates all but guaranteed the scions of the Golan and St. Esprit families a long and lucrative career regardless of where they went or whatever field they chose, you still had to remember- always- that sometimes discretion was the better part of valor.

And that not everybody understood the unique role fulfilled by what now was referred to as The Vigils. It was spoken of at length in Pat Conroy's famous novel, _The Lords of Discipline_. The Ten awed Nicholas with their fiery passion, their love for their college (a thinly fictionalized depiction of The Citadel in 1966-1967), and their willingness to do what it took- _whatever_ it took- to ensure no unworthy filth wore the Ring.

Such a group was absent at VMI, Nicholas had found. He had asked around, made serious inquiries in the form of idle jokes, listened and looked for almost three full years here at the Institute. Nothing. And it was a shame, too, because there were some slobs here who had gotten softer and lazier every year since they'd broken out of the Ratline. You had sarcastic, cynical bastards who were just marking time, waiting to get their diploma and quit all this military bullshit- guys who'd just come here for the respect they knew a VMI degree would get them. If The Ten existed here- or The Vigils- they'd definitely have done some cleaning house.

But they didn't exist. And that meant that apart from having some friends in the Corps who agreed with his viewpoints, Nicholas did not have anything like the kind of backing he'd had at Remington. Messing around behind the scenes, pulling strings and trying to get other cadets demoted or dismissed, or staff members fired, was tricky and dangerous even at Remington. Here at VMI, it was outright dangerous. Nicholas and Ryan would get expelled if they were caught pulling that shit here.

So Nicholas just answered, "Ryan, man, we don't have that kind of pull here. We're not at Remington anymore. We gotta remember that."

Ryan flicked him a half-sarcastic, half-serious salute. "Yes, sir, Commandant. Let's just be real careful around this guy, okay?"

Nicholas nodded. "Sure. And if we get one whiff that he knows something, see him looking at us funny… get a feeling maybe he's gonna try talking to someone…"

"…We squish him like a bug." Ryan finished. He paused, glancing at Nicholas. "Even here?"

"Even here," Nicholas confirmed, nodding. "I bet you we could get something done if we absolutely had to, if we called in a favor from the old guys. But only if we have to, man. I don't really want to make a habit of bringing this Vigil shit here to Lexington, anyway. I had to put up with _so much shit_ when I shut down Honor Corps-"

Ryan laughed, neatly pulling the enormous coupe into a space that was almost directly in front of the grill-and-bar called The Boar's Head, at 47 South Main Street. "Hey, it's cool, man. I was there, remember?"

Nicholas laughed too, at himself. "Yeah, I know."

He looked at his best friend, his BR and fellow Vigil, wondering at the miraculous forces that had made them as close as brothers- just as their fathers had been at their age, and still were now. Nicholas found the words as they neared the front door.

"Thanks for having my back all this time, man."

Ryan gazed back at Nicholas, looking him right in the eye. "Always."

 **XX**

The two VMI cadets were laughing and joking as they came in, but quickly straightened up in view of the civilians crowding The Boar's Head. Neither one of them saw who was seated in the only other occupied booth in that corner of the restaurant- the only area left at this busy hour where a little peace and quiet could be found.

They would have recognized Anthony DiNozzo, but his back was to them. They would have also recognized Travis, but he saw them coming and quickly but casually snapped up a menu and began studying it intently.

And in any case, neither one of the two young men was on the alert at the moment. With visions of booze and pretty coeds dancing in their heads, they were not concerned with who else was here in the restaurant. They were here to eat some good food, shoot the breeze for a while, and then hit Interstate 64, headed for Richmond.

But while Nicholas Golan and Ryan St. Esprit didn't notice Travis and Tony, and Tony didn't notice them, Tony did notice the sudden change in Travis' manner. In just moments he went from calm and relaxed- as calm and relaxed as Travis got, anyway- to guarded and apprehensive.

"Uh, Travis?" Tony asked, laughing a little. "What's up, man?"

Travis waited a few moments to sneak a glance up, over Tony's shoulder. Sure enough, two booths away, the two VMI boys were there. They'd taken off their black jackets and now looked like Navy officers in this neatly-pressed, immaculate white uniforms, all decked out with their second-classman insignia, shoulderboards, badges of rank. They exchanged polite, friendly greetings with the waitress, ordered an ice water each, and went back to talking light-heartedly as she left.

"Travis?"

Determined not to give any alarm, not with two boys he knew to be brilliant and dangerous in equal measure nearby, Travis sighed and set the menu down. "I just get nervous sometimes."

"You think somebody's watching you?"

"In this day and age, it's better to assume someone is."

Tony sighed, not sure what to say to that. Being paranoid and being ready for the worst was his job, not Travis', but he'd wound up being very guarded and cautious anyway. It was funny, and tragic, how these things sometimes worked.

"Look, Travis," he said, trying to change the subject, "I just wanna say that I'm proud of you, man. You're doing better now than I've ever seen you. Got your own house, a car that's next to new, that RMA retirement pay coming in on top of what VMI pays you- that's not bad, man. I'm glad to see you've gotten away from RMA, too. I think Lexington suits you."

"Thanks, Tony," Travis said, pleased in spite of his continued anxiety at having those two so close by. What made it particularly bad was how he'd been thinking all over again today about how wrong it was that Nicholas Golan was living the good life, with nothing but even better things ahead, while Christine Sanders was six feet under the ground. On a day when he'd already been jarred out of his normal routine by seeing someone he'd hoped never to see again, now he had them hanging around with a classmate in the very place he'd chosen for dinner on his birthday.

But he didn't want to let that ruin his evening. Nor did he want to raise any kind of alarm and set Tony off- he was off duty, for God's sake, and old RMA business was not what Tony had come out here for.

So he did his best to go along with it, talk about regular things, listen attentively as Tony told him about the other detectives in his office.

But it wasn't exactly surprising that the trained detective eventually noticed Travis' eyes, every so often, sliding away from Tony's and over his shoulder towards the VMI boys in white. Tony seemed to try letting it go for a while, but finally sighed and set his drink down, lowering his voice.

"Look, Travis, I have to ask. I've been watching you eyeball those two Navy guys over there for ten minutes now. What's going on?"

Travis abruptly decided to go for broke. He leaned forward, lowering his voice further still. "Listen," he almost whispered, "those aren't Navy guys. They're VMI cadets. Trust me, I know their uniforms."

"All right, so what? What's so special about those two?"

"Tony," Travis said quietly, "those are St. Esprit and Golan's sons."

Taken aback, Tony visibly resisted the urge to turn around and look at the two cadets behind him. He stared at Travis, disbelief on his face. "They're _both_ in Honor Corps, too?"

"Yeah," Travis nodded; he could explain the reorganization of that wonderful little outfit as The Vigils later on. He paused, then added, "Those two had a big part in what happened. They helped break Christine Sanders."

 **XX**

The two young men took their time once the food arrived, lingering over it. They just ordered water to drink; they'd want to be stone-cold sober for the two-hour drive to Richmond, and besides, they'd be drinking plenty of more fun beverages later tonight.

"You ever think we screwed up with Sanders?" Ryan asked quietly, and Nicholas jumped as if struck with a pin.

" _What the hell are you talking about_?" he said, too loudly. Suddenly, he was very glad for the relatively high level of ambient noise in The Boar's Head. You wouldn't want to talk about Vigil business in the fucking library. Quickly lowering his voice, he went on, "Why are you even bringing that _up_?"

"Just curious."

Nicholas sighed, looking away, then back again. "I _thought_ we already went over this. But whatever. Look, you wanna know what happened? We got orders, and Craig was top dog back then. He _lied_ to us, man. He told us it was _all legit_ , that it had nothing to do with Sanders not giving him the time of day."

The blond paused to take a drink of ice water, then went on, continuing to keep his voice low. "None of us liked doing that shit to her. And the fact that he fuckin' lied to us is half the reason the guys backed us so quick when I said I wanted Craig fired. They were tired of his shit, too."

"Yeah. I remember." Ryan did- like it was yesterday. He remembered how easily they'd both played the part of merciless torturer and stalker, the masters pulling all the strings to ruin the puppet's life. It was a little unnerving.

 _But, fuck, man_ , Ryan thought uncomfortably, _we didn't kill her._ She _did. We're the_ good _guys. The Vigils protect Remington, protect tradition. All we were doing was following orders_.

As if reading Ryan's thoughts, Nicholas asked rhetorically, "I mean, did we _enjoy_ it? Are we _sadists_? No. But we had orders, and we do as we're told as long as the orders are legit, like the military does." Nicholas shook his head. "Apart from that… the whole thing _was_ a screwup, man. People ain't supposed to get dead because of us. Dead folks can cause a _lot_ of fuckin' problems." He paused, eying his friend. "You're not feeling _guilty_ or some shit, are you?"

Ryan sighed, taking a few moments to think. "No, I just- I think we went farther than we should have."

"So do I," Nicholas said solemnly. "I didn't want her dead, man. But you know what? She _is_ dead, and nobody can bring her back. Any of us lost our nerve and confessed, all we'd be doing is ruining our own lives."

"Fuck that," Ryan said, quiet but deadly serious.

"Exactly," Nicholas said, nodding. He sighed again, leaning back in the cushioned booth seat. "You know, I had been thinking of asking her out when it all started. It's too bad, man, it really is. She probably would've been a great lay."

In spite of himself, Ryan grinned. "Hey, no worries about that, okay? It's not like we're gonna sit around and talk about the weather at U of R."

"You really think we'll both get laid tonight?"

"I _know_ it," Ryan said, a gleam in his brown eyes. "You're smooth, I'm smooth- and we already know there's girls there who're down for a one night stand."

"Which we _are_ actually good at," Nicholas said, looking pointedly at Ryan as he ate some more of his steak. "As opposed to that pussy Sam Smith."

"Listen to you! You like Austin Mahone!"

Nicholas flushed. "Hey, look, man. Austin is _good_ , okay? He's got _talent_. And he ain't no bitch who sings at a higher pitch than most _chicks_."

"Sure you don't have no man-crush on Austin?"

"I'm sure," Nicholas said, trying to look stern but just grinning instead. "How'd I ever get stuck with a faggot like you?"

"Family connections."

Nicholas groaned. "Don't remind me. It's like we were fuckin' joined at the hip."

"What, you regret going to school with me since 6th grade?"

"Not for a fucking second," Nicholas said. "I've never had a better friend in my life."

Ryan hesitated, then added, "Me neither."

The two young men stared at each other, and abruptly Nicholas knew the both of them were about to choke up and cry. They'd been crying like little babies at Ring Figure, so powerfully moved by the significance of having come all this way together- from 6th grade to getting their VMI class rings- that neither of them had said much the whole ceremony. They could barely speak.

"So," Nicholas said quickly, clearing his throat and blinking, "Uh, so. I wanted to make sure about something."

"Yes, Protestant heathen?" Ryan replied smilingly.

"Well, you bisexual Catholic altar boy, I wanted to make sure we're not gonna be jumping any fuckin' grenades tonight."

"Have we ever?"

"Seriously. You know I don't touch nothing below a 7, and or a 6 if I've been drinking."

"Which you will be."

"So how about it?"

Ryan took a drink of water, then looked back at his friend. "BR," he said, "this is a _prep_ party. Not just anybody gets invited; the guys planning it have good taste. I doubt anybody's gonna be _there_ who's below a 7."

"Guys _and_ girls, huh?" Nicholas grinned. "That way even _you'll_ be happy."

"Fuck you."

"So y'wanna make a bet?"

"A bet?"

"Just a good old-fashioned bet," Nicholas replied, nodding. "When each of us is about to get some, we look at our watch. Check the time. We tell each other the time tomorrow, and whoever got laid first wins… like, I dunno. Five hundred bucks."

"A thousand."

"You're on, Catholic boy."

"Just be ready to hand over the dough, you Protestant fuckbucket."

Nicholas laughed, shaking his head. "So forget Sanders, man. Forget her. Everything's cool, everything's fine. We're gonna go to Richmond, get drunk, and fuck some rich girl's brains out tonight."

"But what if we forget the time because we're drunk?" Ryan asked suddenly.

It was beautiful to watch Nicholas Golan respond to questions like that. All those "tricky" questions everybody else hated, Nicholas loved. He was smart, just about brilliant, and when he got the brain train rolling there was no stopping him. So Nicholas just calmly looked at his best friend, his classmate and fraternal brother, and said, "Then we just drink less on Saturday."

" _Nice_ ," Ryan said, grinning, and he raised his glass in salute.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

 **A/N: It is never really explained how Travis Phelps knows the things he does in the present day about Honor Corps. The screenwriters were exactly right in having him say he didn't know their names or faces, because such a group, by its very nature, exists in secrecy. I altered that just a tiny bit, giving Travis knowledge of a couple of faces and a couple of names. I reference a few lines from the 2008 video game** _ **Saints Row 2**_ **and the 2009 film** _ **Jennifer's Body**_ **in this chapter, along with the novel** _ **The Rag and Bone Shop**_ **as I mentioned. Sections of this third chapter, above all, are based very closely off the Cormier novel. I have considered writing a fourth chapter for this story, and haven't 100% ruled that out. But there's something to be said for writing out events to a point, providing lots of hints and implications, and from there let the reader make up their own mind about how things turned out.**

* * *

Jason was tired. He was always tired. And he'd learned more about what that word could mean than he'd ever wanted to know.

You could be tired from sleeping too little; you could be tired from sleeping too much. You could be mentally tired from doing something that was taxing or stressful on your mind, or from bearing some heavy mental burden. There was tiredness of the body, tiredness of the mind- and, the one Jason felt he'd come to know best, tiredness of the soul.

He was fifteen years old, and already he'd been arrested six times. Two for every year he'd been a teenager, if you wanted to average it out.

A robbery- that was his first one. After his role model, his mentor and big sister had died, Jason had almost collapsed from despair the very day he was told. But no comfort could be found at home- Jason figured that one out in a hurry.

Mom and Dad had gotten along well enough before, but after Christine killed herself, they had argued almost constantly. Desperate to find some kind of solitude, someplace- anyplace- where he felt like he belonged, Jason had accepted some tentative offers from a few of his more rebellious friends to go hang out over the weekend.

 **XX**

Working each other up on dares and boyish bravado, Jason and his friends had decided to rob a coin laundromat a couple miles from their neighborhood. The two old guys who went around to all the washers and driers every Friday, pulling all the piles and piles of quarters and putting them in a jingling bag, were not that alert. Not pushovers, but they just had the look and walk of guys who hadn't ever had to think twice about watching the pillowcases of change.

So Jason, Jimmy and Rowan had decided to hit Lexington Cleaners this one Friday evening, two summers ago. They wasted a lot of time racing their bikes in the shopping center parking lot, shooting the bull about girls and school, but the whole time, they kept their eyes on the laundromat. Then, once they saw the old guys wrapping up at 8:30, retrieving the change, they got their bikes hidden in the trees across the street and came walking casually across the parking lot at 9:00, just as the one old guy was walking out to his car with the two bags of change, one on each hand.

Robbing him had been a cinch. The three thirteen-year-old boys had gotten just close enough, then shoved him and knocked the old bastard on his ass. The two pillowcases hit the cracked, fading pavement, and Jason could have whooped for joy when they didn't spill one coin. The old guy had been too careful for that- he'd twisted the empty part of the pillowcases and held them there, probably to prevent spillage if he dropped one. Jason took one, Jimmy took the other, and Rowan, the slick bastard that he was, kicked the old guy hard and frisked him for his wallet when he curled up.

Then they'd run for it, taken off just as fast as they could go. Shouts followed them, and it went without saying the police would be called. But somehow- _some_ how- they'd gotten their bicycles out of there fast enough. They'd made themselves scarce. Gotten away.

From there, it was just a matter of stopping at Rowan's place at the edge of town. They hid in his treehouse all night, having arranged earlier in the week to be having a sleepover at Rowan's tonight. Hanging around up there all evening, bragging and boasting as they counted up the money, the boys had a tough time keeping their voices down. They were high on adrenaline, giddy with the thrill of success, elated at how completely their plan had succeeded.

Nothing could ever be as much fun as this- nothing that the big, bad adults wanted you to do, anyway.

Jason sometimes still smiled when he thought of that June evening. They had stolen something like 4,000 quarters- right about $1,000 exactly. That, along with three $20 bills in the old dude's wallet, had made the three just-turned-thirteen-year-olds very rich boys. The share was $353 per boy. Not bad for pocket money.

They'd gotten away with that one, and had very smartly agreed never to go back to that coin laundry. They went on to get away with some other small-time heists, though they never quite dared to try another thousand-dollar job for a while. In a startlingly short amount of time, though, they began to miss the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of success that only a job like the first one they'd pulled could bring. "One-Kay Jays," Rowan called them, $1K Jobs.

Finally, they'd plotted to take a shot at the Indian bastard running the gas station quickie-mart a few miles down the street. Using two knives and an airsoft pistol spray-painted from see-through to a much more convincing black, they had held up the store just as the Indian guy was closing.

Jason remembered how well the robbery itself had gone- they'd scared the shit out of that dude. Especially Rowan, the big man of the group ever since he'd managed to fuck his girl in the ass for a couple seconds on his 14th birthday. He'd been making all kinds of threats, training the 'gun' on the Indian guy while Jason cleaned out the drawer.

He said some pretty creative stuff. Rowan seemed to have a natural knack for it.

They had done the job just as quick as they could, but maybe God had just decided to crap on them that night. Because as the three boys came flying out the door of the quickie-mart, weapons hastily jammed in their pockets and the plastic bag of loot in Rowan's hand, they'd run right into a Lexington police cruiser, its driver having dropped by in the hopes of gassing up before the place closed. The cop had been so surprised he'd just about pissed himself, but he got his gun out just fine.

Not wanting to get shot, Rowan dropped the bag and raised his hands. Jason and Jimmy did the same. They'd almost escaped with more than $200 in coins and bills, plus a whole box of 20 packs of Camel cigarettes. And some boxes of Trojan condoms.

 _Almost_ escaped. So close, yet so fucking far.

That stunt had earned all three of them their first stint in juvy. Rowan was shipped off to some boot camp in Florida after that, courtesy of his parents, and Jimmy was right back in as soon as he got out- right along with Jason. They'd tried to bring back the old days and rob the laundromat, but the guys had been ready for them this time.

They'd gotten out on good behavior six months ago.

Jason didn't know what had happened to Jimmy after that. He'd disappeared, vanished off somewhere, just like Rowan.

 **XX**

Jason laughed when he thought about it sometimes; before his big sister had died, he'd been an honest kid, straight as an arrow. It had only been after her death that he'd become a crook.

And a good one, too- though his luck seemed to be getting shittier every day. Hanging out with his buddies, screwing farm girls at the little parties they had outside of towns sometimes- Jason had plenty of luck there.

But whenever he tried to bust into someone's house or hold up any old fucking store, Jason always got his ass thrown in the slammer.

It helped, all the hell-raising. At least it had for a while. Stealing stuff, sleeping around with the girls he knew, breaking shit just for the fun of it- it took Jason' mind of how absolutely miserable he was. And nine times out of ten, he stayed the night somewhere other than home.

Because home didn't really exist.

 **XX**

Mom had divorced Dad one day. Well, that was what Jason figured the big-shots would say she did. That was probably the legal term for it. But all he knew was that there'd been no court hearing, no lawyers. Mom had just disappeared one day- packed up half the stuff in the house while Jason was in juvy and Dad was drunk, and just fucking left.

Dad had beaten the living shit out of Jason for that one. How exactly that was his fault he wasn't sure, but Dad sure seemed to think so. The most beautiful part of the whole job was when he punched Jason right in the face, right in the eye. His left eye had survived, somehow, but it had been swollen shut for almost a week.

Probation officers, guidance counselors, judges, all these dumb motherfuckers were always asking Jason "Why".

"Why's a smart young man like you doing these things?"

"Why don't you just straighten up and fly right?"

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Why won't you learn this ain't gonna do you any good?"

But Jason gave up trying to tell them. His sister was dead, and it had broken his heart from the moment he'd heard about it. Crime, drugs, drinking, fucking, even getting thrown in jail- every bit of it was worth doing if it took his mind off the pain for even an instant.

The pain always came back, though. And from the old, familiar way it asserted its presence every time, it was like it had never left.

 **XX**

Lately, though, Jason had begun to clean up his act. He'd cut his skipping school in half, astounding his teachers. He stopped getting into fights, surprising his guidance counselor. And he actually stopped doing jobs for a while- got out of the business- which surprised almost everybody he knew.

Jason was good with his hands. They seemed to know just what to do, with practically anything. So not long after he'd gotten out of juvy (again) a few months ago, Jason had started tinkering with the old two-door 1990 Honda Accord that had, once upon a time, been intended as Christine's graduation present. Dad had forgotten all about it after she'd killed herself, overdosing on those pills. The car had been quietly decaying in the backyard for years.

But lately, Jason had begun working on it, gathering what he needed out of the many tools Dad had lying around unattended. He'd bought a Haynes manual for the 1990-1994 Honda Accord, hung around at shops asking mechanics questions.

And meanwhile, Dad sat in the house and drank. His retirement paycheck from the Army came every month, and almost all of it went into booze.

Dad had been a bit of a drinker before, but ever since Christine had died he couldn't seem to stop. And if he noticed Jason was in the room, or even in the house, he rarely had anything to say to him. If he did, it was never good.

 **XX**

Then, a month ago, after punching Jason in the eye again the previous night (Jason had made "too much goddamn noise" coming through the kitchen), Robert Sanders had greeted Jason as he came downstairs in the morning.

Not looking up, not turning away from where he sat, staring blankly at the unplugged television, Dad nonetheless knew Jason was there. And though Jason was instantly able to tell the man was sober, there was no change in the way he greeted his son.

"She's dead," Dad had said softly. "Christine is dead, Jason, and all I'm left with is _you_."

Despite how much he hated the old man most days- hated how he wasted all their money on booze he made Jason go out and get- that remark had cut deep. Jason stood there at the bottom of the stairs, hands shaking, his whole body trembling. He walked into the living room and stood over his father as he sat in the armchair, looking him in the eye.

"Is that so bad?" Jason asked, controlling his voice carefully.

Dad's head slowly rotated up and to the left, and gradually his eyes met with Jason's.

"Worse than you could ever imagine," he said, in a voice just as controlled. "When are you going back in, Jason?"

"I'm not _going_ back to jail, Dad," Jason said suddenly, his composure- and his voice- cracking. "I'm going to _school_. And you know what? After I come home I'll rake leaves in the yard. Then I'm gonna go out and work on the Honda-"

Robert Sanders gave a dismissive wave of his hand, turning back to stare at the blank television screen. He picked up a beer from the case sitting beside him.

"Do whatever you want, Jason. Just do it _away from me_."

"You think you're the only one who misses Christine, Dad!" Jason had suddenly shouted. "You think you're the only one in pain! Well you can take your pain, and you can _shove it up your ass_ , Dad! I'm missing a _sister_! _I got plenty of pain_!"

With great deliberation, Dad stood up, slapped his son hard across the face.

"Get out of my sight, Jason. I'm not gonna tell you again."

 **XX**

And that had been the beginning of the true unraveling of Jason Sanders' life. Dad's mind had crumbled years ago, almost the very day Mom had left them for good. Jason's, somehow held together all that time by willpower and some ridiculous sense of hope that things would get better, came completely apart. The new leaf he'd been attempting to turn over dried up and blew away in the wind.

But Jason kept on working on his sister's car. Her name was Christine, and he told her about her namesake as he worked on her. How talented Christine had been, how bright and promising, how much she'd looked after her little brother and how much he'd looked up to her.

Sometimes he slept out there in the shed, in the Honda's backseat. It got cold out there, but Jason didn't care. His sleep was awful anyway. The nightmares that had come from time to time over the years returned with a vengeance. But most nights, there were not so much nightmares as bad dreams. Nightmares were… theatrical, almost. They had some flair to them, were spectacular in their scale and unpleasantness.

Bad dreams were far more mundane, far less interesting, yet somehow even worse to experience. They were just that; dreams that were bad.

Jason had long ago taken to wandering the streets of Lexington, sometimes sleeping behind some store or in a back alley, or on a farm on the edge of town- he'd gotten remarkably good at finding all sorts of little spots he could tuck himself into for a few hours, where he could rest and not be discovered.

When he was awake, though, and that was as much as 20 hours a day, Jason walked. Or rode his bike. Sometimes he walked, pushing his bike with him. He visited stores, thought about robbing them. He hung around on auto shop lots until they chased him off. He even dropped by the coin laundry, but they ran him out of there, too, saying he was lucky they hadn't broken his hip like he and his hoodlum friends had done to Dale.

The downward spiral kept on going, seeming to have no end.

One night a week ago, Jason had found he couldn't stand the heat in the house. It was oppressively hot; Dad must have cranked the heat up to 90 fucking degrees. Jason could barely breathe.

So he ran around the house opening every window, even propping open the doors. It wasn't until Dad came home and beat the hell out of him that Jason realized the house was actually fucking cold, and that freezing rain was pouring in.

He'd stayed up all night cleaning up the ice that had melted all over the floor.

 **XX**

But suddenly, as if sent by God Himself, there was a ray of hope. Jason had been sitting in Christine's room, a place in this house where Dad never seemed to go, where everything she had owned had gone untouched since her death in January of 2015. He'd taken the 2014-2015 yearbook sent by Remington Military Academy, still in its mail packaging, untouched, and gotten it out.

For hours, he'd been lost in that room, reading through not just that yearbooks, but all her other school yearbooks, all the way back to the one she had from 5th grade. Then he read her novels, and her history books, and her encyclopedias. But when Jason found her diary, tucked neatly away at the end of one shelf, he immediately put it back, face burning with shame.

But he'd opened it once before. Just once. And there'd been a passage, one of the last entries, in which Christine's normally neat, orderly spelling had been a chaotic mess. The handwriting of someone who was coming apart inside. And while parts of it were all but illegible, Jason had deciphered some. She'd written about something Honor Corps, how they were ruining her life- and how one boy in particular was making it all happen. Orchestrating it, sly and showy at the same time, impossible to accuse of anything because there was no proof. What had his name been? N-something.

Then he returned to the 2014-2015 yearbook. Jason read through it carefully, intensely focused as he tried to remember… something. Someone. A person who he saw in town sometimes. He was often out buying dinner for himself, and often for Dad too since he didn't seem to remember he needed to go out and get food in order to eat, at this cool bar and grill in town, The Boar's Head.

And someone else- someone he'd seen in this yearbook, though he now wore a different school uniform and was several years older- frequented The Boar's Head too.

Someone who Jason knew was more than what he seemed.

He had this air about him, tall and superior in his cadet grays and dress whites, that said "I'm hot shit." He had an almost constant gleam in his eye, a smug look that said "I know something you don't know. Better yet, I know a _lot_ of things you don't know."

Jason had seen him plenty of times, coming by for dinner almost every Friday or Saturday of the month- sometimes both. Sometimes with a hot date, sometimes with a couple cadet buddies, sometimes with that friend of his he was always calling "The Ghost."

Then, in one of the pictures of cadets on graduation day, Jason found him. He found the bastard, and knew him instantly. Years earlier, different school, different uniform, but it was him. He just knew it.

Arms thrown around the shoulders of two grinning friends, a cigar clenched between each boy's teeth, the guy had three silver dots on each shoulder, what Christine had taught Jason represented a Cadet Captain.

Quickly searching through the senior photos, Jason didn't take long at all to find the bastard again. There he was. Flipping between the graduation photo gallery and the senior photos, Jason found him and knew. The face, the posture, but most of all, that look in his eyes. "I know something you don't know."

And that had given Jason the beginnings of an idea.

A real good idea.

It only got better when Jason worked up the nerve to check Christine's journal and found the name there.

 **XX**

By the end of November, Jason was sleeping soundly. He stayed in his room now, savoring the dreamless sleep he enjoyed. The nightmares and bad dreams were over. He had nothing left, nothing but his love for his sister and the realization that blood sometimes needed to be paid for with blood in return.

The realization that his school guidance counselor, Mister Richards, had been more right than even he knew. That Jason really was a good kid, despite seeming evidence to the contrary. That he really could turn things around. Set things right. That Jason could still do whatever he set his mind to- that he could, as they liked to say at VMI, be who he resolved to be.

Dad had been a pretty good soldier, a long time ago. And he'd been quite a sportsman, a firearms enthusiast, a man's man. There were cases, cabinets, and footlockers in this house that had to contain 35 to 45 firearms, most of them semi-automatic pistols, revolvers, or semi-automatic or assault rifles.

Jason had been very careful. He had replaced the key to the heavy steel cabinet just where it had been before. He'd taken just one thing, the only thing he needed.

His Dad would never know that the Glock was missing.

There had been a brief period of indecision, of silent but intense internal conflict, when Jason had taken the pistol, removed the magazine and checked the chamber. The chamber was empty, as expected, but the magazine showed copper-jacketed, brass-cased .45 ACP bullets, thirteen in total. All ready to go. Jason had smiled as he saw he had what he needed. But the smile had vanished as quickly as it appeared, as Jason held the Glock in his hands and battled the sudden, near-overpowering urge to rack the pistols slide back to chamber a round, switch its safety off, and blow his brains out. Abruptly, Jason's wish to die hit him like a freight train, and he actually knelt there in the darkened room for a time- how long, Jason didn't know- and silently wondered if doing it this way wasn't better. Right under his chin, to send the bullet up into his brain. One shot- BAM- then maybe a moment of intense pain, and then… nothing. Jason had wondered why he shouldn't just do it- just save himself and everyone else a lot of trouble.

But then he'd realized: Jason Sanders was not meant to die yet. He wanted little more than to put one of his Dad's guns to his head, under his chin, in his mouth, and end it. But he had to earn death. Jason's inner calm returned, the Glock came down from under his chin, as he realized that his own death really was a privilege. Something that he could not rightly ask for unless he had done something else first. Something very, very important.

Jason had set himself to this task with a kind of willpower he'd never known he would feel in his fifteen years of life. It was his love, his passion, his purpose. It was the reason he existed. The reason God had put him on this earth.

The Honda was running. Jason had no driver's license, no learner's, but he wasn't worried about that. Christine the Accord wasn't actually running that great, and she only had a few gallons of stolen gas in the tank. But Jason wasn't worried about that, either. He'd worked his magic on the Honda, done all the work on Christine that he could. She was ready for tonight. She would get Jason as far as he needed to go.

Excitement filled him the whole day. Friday, December 1, 2017. Jason felt as if electricity was coursing through him, enough to key you up but not enough to hurt. He felt good; as he walked home after school- and he _had_ gone to school- Jason lifted his chin as a swift autumn breeze came up. He let the sun's rays warm him, and he actually stopped there on the side of the street, closing his eyes.

He hadn't felt this good in a long time.

Everything was okay now. Even Dad would be better once this was over. He'd be okay. He would be, because things would be right again. Balanced out. They would be, because Jason set them right. _Made_ them right.

 **XX**

It was six-twenty in the evening. Eighteen-twenty, if you preferred. Jason lay on his bed, dressed and ready, hands behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. Wondering what he should do next. Yet _knowing_ what he should do next.

He was excited, but also scared. The weight of that Austrian-made piece of plastic and steel jammed into the waistband of his jeans made him scared. But so did the things he knew about what was about to happen. What he had to do.

 _What the hell am I even scared of_?

Maybe it was failure. The mission could go wrong any number of ways, in spite of all Jason had done to prevent that from happening. In spite of his confidence in a successful mission, Jason was still aware failure was possible. Maybe it was death, as much as Jason welcomed it, that had him scared. People were naturally afraid of dying. Maybe it was the pain, however brief, that would come with shooting himself. Maybe Jason was scared he'd lose his nerve and surrender, or that his target would get away. It was an endless, stupid road to go down- letting your fears eat you up, get the better of you. Jason knew he was scared, and acknowledged that. But he'd been scared before and come out on top. And he simply could not afford to let himself start getting nervous or hesitant now. He would not allow it. Jason reassured himself that while he did have fear, there was also plenty of hate in his heart. He'd allowed it a space there at first, then a bigger one. He'd permitted it to grow, and Jason was thankful he'd done so. He would need all his hate, all his nerve and courage, and yes, all his love, to do this. Jason knew he had enough.

If he was going to set things right… make Dad proud, show Mr. Richards how right he'd been to believe in Jason all this time, balance out the universe and all that…

Nicholas Golan hung around The Boar's Head a lot. Almost every day, come the weekend. Taking his time, as usual, laughing and sly, as usual.

"I know something you don't know."

That's what the look in his eyes said.

But now Jason saw that look in his own eyes. His gray ones, versus Nicholas Golan's blue.

 _I know something you don't know_.

Jason got up and retrieved the note he'd written from his desk, addressed "Dear Dad." It was short, to the point- just a few sentences. It began with "I'm never coming back," and that was about all it said. That was the point to it. The bottom line.

As he made his way downstairs, silent as any Green Beret, Jason listened for the sounds of his father's breathing. Sure enough, he'd fallen asleep in his chair. That was good. Jason wanted his Dad sleeping, had hoped he'd get the perfect chance to get downstairs, leave the letter, and simply disappear. He would vanish from his father's life. From everyone's life. He'd be gone like smoke in the wind, so completely absent it would be as if he'd never even existed. It was what Jason wanted, and knew he deserved.

He left the note on the middle of the kitchen table, neatly folded. It would be found. Dad would find it. And he would be proud of Jason once he knew. He'd be so proud of his son, and he would understand that sometimes hard things needed to be done to set stuff right. To set the _world_ right. He would. He would understand.

The first part of the mission was now accomplished. Jason had tried his luck at the first stage of the operation, and so far, good luck was with him tonight. Jason was pleased. It spoke well of the prospects of the rest of the mission that the first step had gone off so seamlessly.

Jason looked at his watch as he stepped out onto the porch, pulling the front door silently shut behind him. Six-thirty. Cool evening; only a few clouds, occasionally obscuring the otherwise clear light of the moon. He knew that Nicholas Golan would be at The Boar's Head. All he had to do there was go in, wearing his threadbare L.L. Bean jacket, as he always did. If he needed an excuse, he'd say he was out getting dinner for his Dad. He'd even place an order. They'd let him wait. Stretch his legs, if he needed to, use the men's room, if he needed to.

All he had to do was drive there and walk in. 47 South Main Street. Just a couple of miles away. Easy.

Jason's driving left something to be desired, but he'd prepared well, studied the Honda's controls and owner's manual with obsession. He'd even practiced a few times when he'd gotten daring, starting up the Honda and driving it around the property for brief periods of time. He knew enough. He'd get there.

A beautiful feeling of sweetness came over him as Jason stepped off the porch. He lifted his head, let the feeling carry him for a while, like a fresh breeze in his heart.

Then he took the .45 out of the back of his waistband, made sure it was on safety (for now), and snapped a round into the chamber as he walked out to the car.


End file.
